


Laurelin

by Remawerth



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, The Two Trees, The West, Valinor, aman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 21:19:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17691260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Remawerth/pseuds/Remawerth
Summary: The golden tree of Valinor reflects on her life and death.Originally posted on lotrplaza 2/10/13, and ff.net 7/21/13





	Laurelin

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was originally written for the Ages of Arda - Children of Endor saga RP on lotrplaza after I was awarded the Admin Tribute Rank of Laurelin. One of the perks of being awarded such a rank is that you get to write as the character for the month you have it, and I decided to take on the challenge of writing as a long dead tree :D
> 
> Text in italics is quoted from Tolkien.

Ezellohar was a lonely place. The mound bulked up from the grassy sward of Valinor, sloping upward smooth and green at first. But slowly the lush grasses began to fade and yellow, then crumble into brown relics and finally bare black earth where the ground smelt of poison and nothing dared grow. At the pinnacle of the mound stood two trees, or rather, what had once been trees. They were but ashen husks now, once proud trunks withered, the branches whose heavy-laden boughs once shaded all of Ezellohar now shriveled, curling inwards. In their days of life and glory, one, the elder, had been called Telperion, and his silver light bathed Valinor in an ethereal grow. And the younger had been called Laurelin: the Golden, Malinalda, Culúrien and many names lost to legend. Her leaves had been _of a young green like the new-opened beech; their edges were of glittering gold. Flowers swung upon her branches in clusters of yellow flame, formed each to a glowing horn that spilled a golden rain upon the ground; and from the blossom of that tree there came forth a warmth and a great light._ The great lush of Laurelin’s boughs had covered the land of Valinor in a rich golden glow that made joyous Elda and Vala alike in the full light of her flowering.

Laurelin’s light was now no more, as she stood in wretched death upon the hill. And yet there was still some spark of life within her core; from her seared and smoldering bough had come the fruit that made the Sun, and though that effort had drained from the golden tree her last energy of life, deep within her lurked the essence of the light and love that had once been, waiting and waiting, ever waiting to be rekindled. Yavanna sat beneath the blackened limbs this day, and Laurelin looked upon her sadly. Of all the things which the Giver of Fruits had sung into being, the two trees had the most renown, the most sorrow, and the greatest measure of her love. Together with Nienna, Kementári had bent all her skill upon the trees, but could not achieve their healing. Throughout the long years she would come at times and sit as she did today, gazing upon the deadened trees and chanting to them in lamentation, though her hope of resurrection was ill. Laurelin looked also sadly upon Telperion- her elder, her brother, her mate. Once he had shone with a brilliant silver light that flooded the land in its splendor, casting everything into shimmers pale and lovely. Once beneath the earth their roots had twined closely together and she could feel his joy. But now she stood alone, roots withered like her branches, and if Telperion’s joy still lingered in his heartwood, she knew not. In the midst of her sorrow, the song of Yavanna reached Laurelin, and the golden tree cast her thoughts back to happier days, and remembered.

At first, there had been nothing. Only the awareness, suspended in darkness, that she was. She did not know what she was, nor where, nor how, but she existed, and that was enough. From a distance, it seemed, there came a sound from the echoes of silence, a sing voice, pure and lovely. She could not understand the words, but they called to her irrevocably and she thrust herself upwards, yearning to meet the song. As she moved, she began to not only know, but to feel that she was. Something pressed against her tightly, soft and warm and moist. The word came to her from nowhere: earth. She could feel herself drawing from it nourishment, water and nutrients infused her through the tendriling feelers of her roots. They drew in the goodness and flourished outwards, seeking more of the life giving substances. In the blinking between one instant and the next, one of her threadlike roots had touched something unknown, and alive. In that same instant she broke the surface of the earth and in a rush of air the song grew loud about her and she could see next to her a slender silver shoot, bursting up from the surface of the earth in a rush. Then she knew that she was doing the same, the ground tightening about her thickening trunk as she drew rapidly away from the ground. As she crew upwards so her roots grew outwards and twined with his; yes, she knew now, that the other being was the same as she and he was full of joy; so she was also joyful as they grew together. It seemed at once mere moments and yet a very long time as they grew, but how long passed they never knew, nor never would know, but in those instants all that was passed between them.

And she knew that he had reached the song first, racing past her in his haste to know, while she had lingered in contented comfort. She knew that they were meant to be thus entwined and that for all unseeable time to come, they must be so. Together they grew, and strong; she saw him thrust forth limbs of shining silver sheen, a chill and ethereal light bathing the ground to spread and slither into each nook and cranny of the vast land in which they found themselves. At once the impulse and energy filled her to overflowing and with a great inward cry of silent ecstasy she burst forth in a great golden plume, leaf and flower budding and flourishing in an instant. And her light was warmth and love and softness, filling in the shadows left by that of her twin to complete the illumination of the world, perfect and rhapsodic and joyous. The song which had brought them forth surged louder and triumphant, joined now by many voices in welcome and praise and she heard their names proclaimed: Laurelin she was, and would now and forever be. Telperion stood at her side, slightly less in height though the elder, strong and proud; together they would be the light that brought night and day to Valinor, and the strength that bound it in harmony.

_Through long ages the Valar dwelt in bliss in the light of the Trees beyond the Mountains of Aman_. Laurelin and Telperion flourished and were glad; each waning as the other waxed into full bloom to light the land, and the mingling of their lights at the beginning and end of each day rang silent and lovely, and caused Vala and Elda alike to pause and gaze in wonder. The Firstborn had come to Valinor young and uncertain, wary of the light of the Trees, but Telperion had enticed them with silver beams, and Laurelin soothed them with sweet golden rays, her dews dropping slow to anoint them and here and there a golden flower drifted down to adorn the hair of a maid. Time passed slowly in Aman, but it was not long before the Eldar began to gather at the feet of the Trees upon the green mound, to sing, dance and make merry. Though all the Eldar loved the Trees, there was one nér who seemed to dazzle more at their light than the others. Many long hours he spent with his hands pressed against Laurelin’s bark, gazing up at the glittering gold of her leaves. From him she learned his names, but chose to know him by the name of the mother- Fëanáro, the spirit of fire; bright and hot and yearning. 

He was a smith, the son of Finwë, dark and brooding, and Laurelin had watched him grow from slow childhood into strong adulthood; seen him wed, and known the birth of each of his seven sons. But the greatest of Fëanáro’s triumphs was wrought in secret, and the Trees themselves did not know how he had accomplished it. But one day when the waning of her light had just begun, he came to stand beneath Laurelin’s boughs, bearing a heavy iron box tenderly in his arms. He did not speak, but stood, gazing at her lights and reached to brush the tips of his fingers against her bark. Then he lifted the lid of the box, and from within came a dazzling light, hard and crystalline, both warm and cool at once, familiar and foreign. Laurelin looked upon the lights as they dimmed ever slightly, and saw that upon the velvet innards of the box sat three gems, large and wondrous. Yet these were not any gems; they called to her with small voices, childlike with wonder at their being, the lights within them twisting and bending, leaping as though they sought to escape their bounds, though not with anger or fear. And as she gazed at the jewels, Laurelin knew that they contained her light, her golden and warm light- and Telperion’s also, the subtle silver rays of her mate. Together their lights came together in these gems as they did at the mingling, ensnared into living jewels by Fëanáro’s skill.

At first the jewels, the Silmarils they were called, were openly loved by all, and often brought to the Trees, where Laurelin would reach out with her brightest light to touch them. But as the years passed, Fëanáro began to grow jealous in his love of the Silmarils, so far as to be persuaded that his brother coveted them, and for his threat, the smith was exiled. With him he took the jewels, and Laurelin felt equal parts sadness and relief. The beauty of the gems had caused both happiness and strife, and with them safely tucked away in Formenos, perhaps the latter would pass, and peace return to the Noldor. After a time it seemed to be so, when Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë met, and took hands, and the Eldar celebrated their reconciliation. The Trees were joyous, and that night the mingling of their lights was brighter and more fervent than ever before. Such joy, however, was not to be. For even as the Eldar and Valar were occupied with their reverie, Melkor stole across the plains of Valinor. Melkor, who had whispered lies and deceptions into the ear of Fëanáro, who had coveted the Silmarils and caused the strife among the Noldor from his place lurking in the shadows of stones where the light of the Trees did not reach, came hastening towards Ezellohar, and with him Ungoliant, the vast evil in spider form, come hence from the unknown.

Had either of the Trees been able to cry out, no chance would have been afforded them before Melkor came suddenly upon them. He bore a great dark spear and at once thrust its point deep into the heart of Telperion. The shining silver tree shuddered violently before Laurelin’s sight and through the twining of roots which had ever connected them she felt his unutterable agony, his joy shattered and consumed by a black fire that licked coldly from the wound of Melkor’s spear and seared the shining trunk of Telperion. For a moment Laurelin watched in horror as the leaves of her mate began to fall, his limbs blackening and shivering, and it was as she watched that Melkor sprang forth and smote her with his spear. Had she been able to give voice to her pain Laurelin’s scream would have rent the very sky of Valinor apart, tearing stars from their homes and snuffing out their light with the anguish of her cry. The precious sap that was her lifeblood poured from the wound, staining her trunk and the ground below with its precious, viscous fluid. Faintly through the blinding torment Laurelin could see the hulking shape of Ungoliant; where Melkor had gone she did not know, but the spider had set her beak to Telperion’s wound and was drinking of his sap, the sounds that came from her glut lewd and foul in her pleasure. 

It seemed distantly that the hulking shape of Ungoliant crawled forward, her thorax grotesquely swollen with the blood of Telperion, but the ragged panting of her breath made Laurelin know that the she-demon was near through her delirium. Bloated as she was the spider hungered still, and her black beak struck now at the wound of the golden tree. No sooner had the bite sunk into her flesh than Laurelin felt the rich flood of the sap begin to drain away, drawn thirstily by Ungoliant who guzzled the rich liquid as though it were water. And not only did she take but also gave; from the spider’s mouth secreted a venomous ooze, drawn in by the desperately dry fiber of Laurelin’s trunk. But it was not the cleansing draught for which she had hoped, but an insidious poison. As it spread rapidly through her, Laurelin felt as though she had been set aflame, every narrow vein of every leaf and flower incensed with fire. Leaves and flowers curled swiftly and died, dropping like some grotesque rain from her boughs. These themselves began to wither, invaded from the inside out by the pain of Melkor and the venom of Ungoliant, retreating and retreating in a quest for safety, dried and blackening as they began to curl inwards. All at once Ungoliant had gone, leaping away after her master and the Trees were left along upon their mound. Dimly Laurelin could hear distant sounds of lamentation, and see flickers both silver and gold. Then the light of Laurelin faded and died, receding in a rush to leave behind only darkness. And the golden tree of Valinor knew no more.

At first, there was nothing. Not even a true awareness, only the sensation of pain and loss. Even these things were far away, and she did not want to more closely approach them. A cocoon surrounded her, hard and unyielding, in which she saw, heard and felt nothing, and no sense of time penetrated. Yet far, ever farther away, some distant point began to chip at the walls of the cocoon, chipping and pointing slowly, then more insistently, growing stronger and stronger until at last it burst through. A crack formed in the wall through which a sound leaked: weeping and song together, mingled in a distressed chant. After a time the weeping diminished, and only the song lingered. It was a familiar voice, longing, full of hurt and hope. It did not diminish, but continued alone in the darkness, unending and determined. Slowly, slowly a thin web of cracks began to grow and curl through the walls surrounding her, and she began to stir, the confinement pressing in upon her more closely. Even as she stirred, the song faltered once, as though a sob of despair had entered the singer’s throat; the next notes were hoarse, then as they mellowed and became smooth again they pleaded desperately, and Laurelin answered the call. 

The walls of the cocoon burst in flying shards of sudden blinding white; no sooner had they shot forth than they vanished and in a rush she came awake. Still there was darkness, but this time it was not absolute. From above, the faint shimmer of stars cast pale outlines upon Ezellohar, and upon Yavanna as she stood alone in the darkness, chanting her quavering song. The faintest of touches struck Laurelin from beside her, and she knew that it was the last remaining connection of the web that had for so long connected she and her mate. In that instant of touch and love a great resolve filled the Trees, and with the final vestiges of her strength Laurelin drew all of her energies into one limb. From that blackened limb and withered wood came a small golden bud, which slowly grew and uncurled, and when at last the weight of it became too great, the lushest and most beautiful fruit that she had ever borne dropped from Laurelin’s branch and dropped unhurriedly to the ground. At the same moment a single silver flower drifted from Telperion, and caught by a faint breeze it struck against Laurelin’s fruit on the ground and they rested there together. Even as they connected, the final tendril that had bound the Trees together beneath the earth withered, and was no more. Suddenly, Laurelin was utterly alone. Though Telperion stood beside her as ever he had, he was but a battered husk, and if he still thought, felt, and was aware as she was, Laurelin knew not. She gazed now exhausted upon only his form and nothing more; no light, nor life, nor joy.

Yavanna collected the fruit and the flower, and in the time that followed Laurelin became aware from the talk of Elda and Vala alike what had occurred while she had languished in stasis. The golden tree’s heart sank within her when she learned of the refusal and flight of Fëanáro, who could have saved her. The once-dreamy youth who had spent so long in her light, captured it in unbreakable beauty, grown so jealous that he could not part from his jewels to rekindle that from which they were born. And because of his jealously the jewels were now gone, and many of the Noldor, and many Sea-Elves slain. Was light, any light, worth such a price? Yet darkness could not be allowed to endure, and so it was that two vessels were wrought by the hand of Aulë, to bear the fruit and the flower. These were the sun and the moon, and once fitted with their precious cargo each shone brightly with the final light of the Trees. The moon rose first into the sky, guided by Tilion, the hunter of Oromë. Following after him came the sun, steered by the fiery Arien, who for long years had tended the golden tree, and now safeguarded the last of her light with steady hand. Laurelin watched as the sun rose for the first time into the sky, and the light of Arien’s vessel, her own light, spread out over Aman, warm and soft and unwavering. And for the first time since the Unlight had touched Ezellohar, Laurelin was glad. She stood now a blackened ruin of her former glory, but with the sun and moon beginning their endless chase across the skies, life and light endured, inextinguishable.

That first brightness of the sun faded before Laurelin, melting smoothly into the subtler light of dusk in Aman as a sudden silence called her back to the present. The song of Yavanna had ceased, and the Vala sat in quietude now beneath the Trees’ bare branches. She did not weep, but Laurelin could see the unending sadness that lingered behind her fair eyes. The Giver of Fruits rose slowly, and pressed her hands each in turn against the trunks of the Trees, before turning to leave. As Yavanna made her way slowly from the mound, Laurelin remembered the words of Námo, which had echoed out over Aman in the mighty voice of the Lord of Mandos. One day, great and terrible things would come to pass; the sun and moon would be no more- but the darkness would not prevail, and with the jewels which had begun these trials, borne by Fëanáro reborn, Yavanna would reignite the fires of the Trees and they would flourish once more, illuminating not only Aman but beyond, the Pelóri brought down so that their light and glory could spread, blanketing all the re-made world in their bliss. When this would come to pass, the once-gold tree did not know. But as Tilion harried across the sky, racing to catch Arien in her steady course, a great hope rose within Laurelin. And to Aman, once more, came the mingling of the lights.


End file.
